


Of the Dark Side of the Moon

by dreyrugr



Category: Avengers (Comics), Iron Man (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But Carol has some choice words, Civil War Team Iron Man, Civil War feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremis, Extremis Tony Stark, F/F, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Steve bashing, Pneumonia, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Secret Invasion (Marvel), Protective Carol Danvers, Protective Steve Rogers, Secret Invasion (Marvel), Sick Character, Sick Tony, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreyrugr/pseuds/dreyrugr
Summary: Tony makes the executive decision to exile himself to the Moon.Alternatively,Steve makes a horrible mistake, following the series of horrible mistakes he committed during the Civil War that broke apart not just the superhero community but Tony Stark himself. He fears he may be too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a bit of 616!Civil War feels to vent (okay, who am I kidding; I have _a lot_ of 616!Civil War feels). Way back when, when I only had a starting like for Iron Man, I read this arc―and it sealed my fate forever. I fell truly, one hundred percent, Team Iron Man―despite all the shitty things that Tony had to do―and then, when my heart first broke with Iron Man #13-14 and, later, with Civil War: the Confession, I fell deeply in love with Tony’s humanity.
> 
> Thus, this thing was a long time in coming. Nonetheless, this is in no way meant to be a Steve bashing. Canonically, Tony has already done his side of the grovelling, particularly at Steve’s and Thor’s feet. This story stems from the fact that I’ve never seen Steve act or say or do anything (so far, that I know of) that would even imply that he regrets his actions in the Civil War. I mean, seriously, for Thor’s sake, you nearly beat your best friend to death―only stopped by the hoard of civilians that suddenly rush to stop you―after you’ve already stabbed him in the back in what was meant to be a truce―and, then, you, what, just forget about it? Each side of the party did wrongs, yet why is it that only one half of it is capable of recognizing it? I’d like to believe Steve does care about his side of things, beyond the impact on the superhero and ‘civilian’ community, and that he’d care, at least, to understand just how well and truly this war irreparably broke something in Tony.
> 
> (Also, Carol Danvers has been a really close favourite since, well, almost as long as Tony has been dear to my heart, and I am utterly in love with the friendship―and demons―they share. So, uh, yeah, this is also just a shameless excuse to attempt to write her in all of her glory LOL.)

* * *

 

 

He thinks at first that it is Bucky under that cowl. It’s Steve, instead, somehow alive after everything―and it’s Steve that turns away from Tony without a word or a second glance at the end of the fight. His silence is that of disappointment―broken trust, betrayal―and frozen-over ire.

 

Tony’s sick, half delirious with a fever that keeps climbing and climbing the longer the virus works at his Extremis biology. Steve turning his back on him―something in Tony breaks.

 

Norman Osborn will rise to the top of glory, Tony knows, to become another Hitler in disguise with his Holocaust set on superpowered heroes. And the Skrull invasion, the systemic failure of all Starkware in the _planet_ , the countless deaths―it will all fall on Tony’s shoulders.

 

It doesn’t matter that it was Tony who single-handedly brought back all of the people the Skrulls had kidnapped. It doesn’t matter that the virus that infected all of his systems was not of his doing. It doesn’t matter that he has fought until he _can’t_ with a suit of armor that’s shot to hell. It doesn’t matter that he fought with the best of them and somehow ended up vertically on his own two feet.

 

None of it matters.

 

Of course not―he’s Tony fucking Stark, the guy who screwed over half of the superhero community and spat on Captain America’s grave. He is the goddamn Lucifer, and it is finally his time to be thrown out of Heaven by his own brothers and sisters.

 

He knew this was coming―he has been waiting for this since the moment he revealed his identity to the world.

 

He packs all of his suit of armors, minus some he leaves to Rhodey and Pepper, leaves the company under Pepper’s name and S.H.I.E.L.D. under Dugan’s, erases the SHRA database from all servers except the one in his head―and then exiles himself to the dark side of the Moon, where a ready-built mansion-forte lies waiting like the embrace of a coffin.

 

He won’t survive this virus. He knows he won’t.

 

He tells himself it’s for the best―there will be no one to cry at his deathbed on Earth, either way. At least, on the Moon, he will die surrounded by his inventions rather than in a cold, white medical ward where his wrists are shackled to the bed’s railing and no one can hear the last of his wheezing breaths.

 

He leaves in the quiet of the night, through the same broken window of Jessica Jones’ desperation, with nothing but a note left on the kitchen island for Jarvis to find in the morning.

 

_I’m so sorry for everything. ― TS_

 

* * *

 

It’s Carol, worried over Tony’s unsteady condition, that finds the note, mere moments after Tony has already disappeared beyond the atmosphere.

 

* * *

 

“Carol―”

 

“ _No_ ,” Carol snaps, electric blue eyes wild and angry. She stabs a pointed finger at his chest. “ _You_ listen. I’m tired of all of this bullshit being pinned on Tony. You had―you have _no right_ ―” She cuts herself off as her anger bleeds over into gathering tears. Her face heats, and she bites, hard, at her bottom lip.

 

Steve mouth snaps shut at her tears, how desperate she is trying to hold back all of those pent up emotions. He gives her the moment she doesn’t ask for.

 

“You have no right,” she continues, softly enough to almost be a whisper. “You’re my friend, too, Steve; I’ve always looked up to you―but, god, what the hell were you thinking? He gave _everything_ ―his sanity, his safety, his _morals_ ―”

 

“That’s his choice, Carol. And it’s not a choice I look on fondly. He split us right in half―”

 

“Do you even _listen_ to yourself!” she bursts out. Her chest heaves with heavy breaths. “I made the same choices he did. Reed, Jan, Hank―all of us, we made the same choices he did because that’s what we thought was _right_. And you know the only thing any of us regret?” She pauses, as if to allow a response, but Steve knows it’s rhetorical―and he doesn’t think she’d listen to anything he has to say at the moment.

 

He jerks his head in a small shake, anyway, when the silence stretches too long.

 

“We couldn’t save you,” she laments, voice haggard with old pain. “We couldn’t keep _any_ of you safe. We lost the war before it even began. And, through it all, Tony never stopped fighting. He―god, he was fighting with a fever, after going down with a seizure so hard and brutal that― _fuck_ , he was screaming _in my arms_. He kept throwing up, paler than a ghost―and, still, he got up and he came to New York and he _fought_. He _fought_ , dammit, leading the fucking charge―and then―and _then_ he brings them all back. He _brought Jessica back to me_. I―”

 

This time, Steve can’t stand still in the face of her pain. Her shoulders shake with the sobs she chokes down―yet, at the first touch of his hand on her shoulder, she springs back like a coil, one foot drawing behind her into a defense-attack stance.

 

“ _Don’t_ ,” she warns. “ _Don’t_ touch me. I’m not in the mood to be coddled―not when I know Tony is out there, somewhere, and he might be _dying._ Do you understand me? Tony’s _dying_ out there, _alone_ , while everyone else here condemns him for everything and anything that ever went wrong. And here you are, being a part of _everyone_ , when I know you know _damn right_ that the only reason why you’re so pissed off at him is because he didn’t fall back at your side like every other time before. You beat him near bloody dead, Steve,” she accuses, seething, “brushed aside every time he extended his hand to _talk like fucking adults_ , and betrayed his trust in the worst way possible. The _least_ you could do is stand up to the goddamn president of the United fucking States and tell him where to shove his scapegoating _bullshit_.”

 

“Carol―” he tries again, but she’s not done. She’s far from done.

 

“ _I’m not done!_ ” she nearly yells. “Tell me what you did instead, Steve! _Tell me what you did_.”

 

He knows what he did. And, suddenly, it curls him with shame.

 

* * *

 

_“Tony Stark will face the crimes he committed, Mister President. I can assure you of that.”_

 

* * *

 

It was a moment of anger, a last ditch effort to hurt Tony as much as Steve still hurts inside. And the worst part―the worst part of it is he didn’t do it in the heat of the moment. It wasn’t his temper that got the best of him then. No―it was something worse. It was a cold, calculated _pettiness_ ― _a taste of his own medicine_ , he thought, because that’s what he deluded himself into thinking the whole Civil War was: Tony Stark’s cold, calculated pettiness.

 

He had a brief moment of satisfaction―and then the weight of his actions had crushed unto him.

 

Carol had been standing, still in the tatters of the day’s battle, waiting―shamelessly eavesdropping―until the meeting had concluded. Arms folded over her chest, eyes red rimmed, and expression thundering. She had a white card, thick and small like that of a business card, held tersely between the fold of two fingers.

 

He stumbled back with the force with which she slammed the card against his chest.

 

She leaned in, breath huffing through her nose in tightly controlled anger, and said, low and deadpan, “I hope you’re fucking happy.”

 

 _I’m so sorry for everything. ―TS_ , he read and understood, finally, with a cold, sinking feeling, what these wars had driven Tony Stark to.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter weaves in and out of present and past tense. I wanted it to sort of follow Steve's jumbled thoughts, and I can only hope I accomplished that LOL.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the love this has received!
> 
> Enjoy! ❤

It was entirely luck that they found him, two weeks later.

 

S.H.I.E.L.D., frettingly wondering over the whereabouts of its current Director, was able to place a trace on the repulsor technology, which had shown a clear trajectory into outer space. From there, it had been up to Colonel Rhodes to pinpoint the not-so-logical conclusion that Tony has been secluding himself on a fort he had built on the Moon some years ago.

 

Carol had to be pulled away to deal with the Osborn situation. It’s just Steve now, with an Avenjet and little more than hope, who was left with the task of convincing Tony to come back home.

 

It went both better and worse than he thought.

 

The better part was that Tony is _alive,_ for a definition of it, at least.

 

The worst part was that Tony couldn’t be convinced that _Steve_ is alive. And fervently refuses to step anywhere near the Avenjet.

 

He took a repulsor to the chest for his efforts on that first day he had broken into the fort. It might not have blown a hole through his body like he knows it could have, but it sure as hell did more than _sting._

 

Apparently, Extremis intakes an overload of information that likes to divulge riddled messages to Tony in the form of _dead people_ , a factor that was heightened due to delirious fever _._ It didn’t take a genius to come to the conclusion that one of the said line of dead people included him. And, true to Tony’s subconscious, which dislikes Tony on a good day, Tony’s hallucination of Steve was little better than abusive, from what he could gather.

 

There’s an irony in there, he thinks. Steve knows perfectly well what he would have done had those civilians not gotten between him and Tony.

 

And, on the other side of that coin, it became evident very quickly, going by the fact that Tony had never revoked his overrides―the same ones he had used to power down Tony’s suit several days ago when Tony had been adamant that Steve _“is dead, you fucking―”_ ―that Tony had never fought to kill during their altercations. The same could not be said for Steve.

 

Steve knows there’s no forgiveness for that, in any universe.

 

But Tony has always been too forgiving, even when he really, really fucking _shouldn’t be._

 

“I don’t care,” Tony croaks. “Y’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

 

Tony has apologized for his side of things every other day, has even gone so far as to explain everything he ever did _ever._ This is the first time Steve has been able to muster enough courage―to down enough of his pride, if he is being brutally honest with himself―to begin unraveling all of the tangled thoughts and memories in his head.

 

He had felt like the Red Skull incarnate when he told Tony what he had said _―promised―_ to the President. Tony, so pale he looked like his skin could be made of glass, had mustered enough shaky breath to _laugh,_ even as his eyes welled and overflowed with tears. “Fuck, Cap,” he said, between heaving for breath his sobs and laughter barely left, “if that’s your worst, then you’re a fucking _saint.”_

 

After all of that, after all of the pain they have caused each other, there’s little wonder that Tony still refuses to come back down to Earth, even momentarily to see a doctor.

 

“It matters to _me,”_ Steve insists.

 

Tony’s eyes are frighteningly blue, red rimmed as they are. After a beat of holding Steve’s gaze―the most he has managed in all of the days Steve has been here―he breaks away with a heavy breath that ends with a stifled cough. There are sentences in that gesture, but Steve hasn’t been able to read any of them.

 

“Tony,” Steve tries again, scooting forward in his seat on the coffee table to place a tentative hand against Tony’s knee, “I’m so, so _sorry._ And I know nothing I will ever say or do could ever take back what I did.”

 

Tony jerks his knee back and away. He still hasn’t looked at Steve again, prefering to stare at a point beyond Steve’s shoulder.

 

Steve tells himself that he has no right to mourn the loss of the brief contact. He doesn’t take it personally, however; Tony can’t take invasions of space the majority of the time, claustrophobia warring at its best. “Tony―”

 

“Steve,” Tony interrupts quietly, the loudest register his voice can manage. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

 

He doesn’t understand how Tony could plead his regret and yet be unable to accept Steve’s own. They both did wrong, but Tony refuses to believe Steve could have possibly done anything other than what is Right and Good. Sometimes, it warms Steve’s heart that someone like Tony, the bravest and most selfless man he has ever known, has such an unshakable resolve in Steve.

 

Other times, it makes him want to do the supersoldier equivalent of slamming his head against the nearest wall.

 

This is clearly going nowhere. Steve takes a fortifying breath and decides to leave this battle for another day. “We’ll continue this conversation some other time, all right?” he says and knows that Tony knows that he isn’t asking.

 

Tony’s gaze fleets over to the near vicinity of Steve’s eyes for the briefest moment. He huddles the layers of blankets closer to his chest and doesn’t say anything.

 

Steve isn’t the sighing type, but he finds it hard in that moment to withhold one. He stands and offers a hand. “Come on,” he says into the settling silence. “Let’s move you to bed.”

 

Tony still refuses to look at him. He shakes his head and, then, in the next moment, turns to cough into the crook of his arm. It’s wet and congested, falling from Tony’s lips one after the other like water cascading down a faucet. Steve can see the way his chest heaves even through the thick blankets, every breath he draws in only stolen for the next bout of coughing.

 

Steve feels pathetically useless as he stands there like a dolt. The only time Tony allows contact is right before he’s about to fall asleep or when he’s too unconscious to consent to Steve carrying him to and fro places. This is neither one of those times.

 

Tony’s diaphragm finally relents its attack enough to allow him room to breathe.

 

Steve flexes his fists and watches Tony pant wetly into the blankets like he just ran three marathons back to back. Tony’s forehead is lolling against his covered arm in that telltale way that tells Steve he’s dizzy enough to become sick.

 

“S’rr,” Tony slurs, Steve’s hearing barely enough to pick up the breathy sound.

 

Steve forces himself to unclench his hands. It takes almost more effort than he has left. “It’s―” _okay,_ he nearly says. That hadn’t gone so well last time. “Don’t be,” he settles on, praying Tony will overlook the previous part. His right hand is shaking with unsettled tension.

 

It scares Steve that Tony can’t even form enough energy to so much as grunt in reply.

 

He reaches twice for Tony’s shoulder before he manages to summon the wherewithal to place his hand on Tony’s free, blanket-covered arm instead. “Hey,” he nudges gently, settling on his knees before Tony’s spot on the couch.

 

Tony’s whole body rolls with the movement.

 

Dammit. “He passed out,” he confirms aloud to himself. The words seem to echo back at him in the thin silence of the room.

 

He gently pulls Tony out of his awkward hunch and easily moves the man in his blanket burrito until he’s lying propped up on a mound of pillows Steve had set off nearby in case of this eventuality.

 

Tony’s hair has been allowed to grow out again, and it splays out in a halo of dark waves against the white of the pillowcase. Even in his sleep, Tony looks washed out and clammy, though there are no dark circles under his eyes and his fever relentlessly burns bright. Yet, even like this, he’s easily the prettiest man Steve has ever seen, all high cheekboned and sharp-jawed. He recalls Jan once said that Tony was _‘movie-star gorgeous,’_ and Steve has always had trouble trying to refute that―he’s never seen eyelashes like Tony’s even on a woman.

 

It doesn’t help that Steve has always fallen for a pair of blue eyes, and Tony’s have the habit of appearing as if to spray their own light against his golden skin.

 

He still remembers that first time he peered into Iron Man’s eye slits and found a pair of piercing cerulean staring back at him. When he met Tony Stark some hours later, he knew immediately who had to be behind that iron mask.

 

He’d been head over heels done for since then.

 

Now, however, he doesn’t know what he feels, other than a very obvious physical attraction. Everything and anything concerning Tony is too convoluted in a myriad of emotions.

 

He delicately brushes stray strands of hair away from Tony’s face. That small touch is enough to know Tony’s fever hasn’t gone anywhere, though there’s small hope in the fact that it has not risen either. It scares him, sometimes, despite Richards’ platitudes, the waves of heat pouring off of Tony, the way they seem to ravage him of strength.

 

So far, tomorrow marks the second week since Steve has been here, secluded on the Moon with Tony. It’s been over a month since anyone has so much as laid eyes on Tony, beyond on the brief video call Steve had with Reed Richards and Hank McCoy regarding Tony’s condition, though not for lack of trying.

 

Last week, Carol―surprisingly accompanied by Thor, of all people―came to drop off the antivirus Richards and McCoy had managed to concoct in the short time they had. Their rather unannounced visit―which Steve later realized was a complete error of judgement―had spurred a panic attack so strong that it wasn’t until four days ago that Steve finally managed to pry Tony away from the safety of his lab.

 

Carol had looked immeasurably distraught at the news that Tony was refusing all visitors and stomped back out with tight, angry movements.

 

Both Thor and Steve had watched her go, the former with something unreadable in his expression and the latter with guilt churning in his gut.

 

“Allow her time,” was all Thor murmured, carefully setting the attaché of vials into Steve’s numb hands. “And express my regret for my harshly spoken words to our friend.”

 

Steve managed the dregs of a smile. “Tell him yourself,” he replied, trying for a joke that fell flat, “when he gets back home.”

 

At this point, he thinks, if Tony ever decides to go back to Earth, it’ll be short of a miracle.

 

And, with that realization, he feels himself crumble under the weight of the world―his body folds over Tony’s unconscious form until his forehead comes to rest, consciously lightly, onto the center of Tony’s chest.

 

The tears spill unbidden from his clenched eyes, soaking into the thick cloth of the blankets.

 

“Please,” he whispers fervently into the unrelenting silence, _“please,_ God, let him _come home.”_

 

This close, he can hear the slow beat of Tony’s heart.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Two months in, and Tony’s cough has faded.

 

Richards says it’s a good sign―a sign that Tony’s Extremis-modified body is mending itself from the dregs of the virus.

 

Yet, two months in, and Tony’s fever has yet to fade, and his fainting spells have gone from being caused by a shortness of breath to being a result of standing up too fast or staying in one position for too long.

 

He grows weaker every day.

 

“That―“ Richards is hesitant to say. “That is―that’s not a good sign, Steve.”

 

It’s as if Tony’s heart has gone,  _ ‘I’m done with this shit;  _ you _ deal with it,’ _ and left Tony for dust.  _ Again. _

 

“I know,” he snaps rather shortly. “And I don’t think I’m helping matters here.”

 

Being here in this lunar mansion thing―or whatever it is―is an exercise in self-restraint. He usually finds himself either passing mindless time watching TV and at others trying to convince Tony of anything, from allowing Steve to prepare him food or to fluff his pillows and change his sheets for him. And for all other things beyond the mindless day-to-day? Steve has, quite succinctly, given up.

 

It has been an uphill battle to even suggest the thought to Tony to come back to Earth, where they keep circling back and forth―time and time again―around one crucial standpoint: Tony truly, wholeheartedly believes that there is nothing nor anyone on Earth who would need him back, much less  _ want  _ him. 

 

Steve’s refutes are for nothing in the face of Tony’s belief. 

 

Rhodey and Pepper are quickly shut down, and Steve has stopped mentioning them after he learns that Tony is  _ anxiously _ afraid that his presence alone puts their lives in danger, Happy Hogan and Rumiko Fujikawa being star examples. 

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. and its associates are discarded with a look that makes Steve feel infinitely stupid for even suggesting it in the first place―which, okay, he’ll give Tony that one, though he still maintains Dugan and Hill have come to begrudgingly  _ care _ for Tony, however surprising that may be.  

 

Mentioning Richards, McCoy, Jan, or Hank―even Carol, who hasn’t found the opportunity to come visit since the last time around―earns him a dry, disbelieving look. As if Tony can’t fathom why any of them would possibly give a crap about him beyond their basic duties as superheroes.

 

At this point, he has almost been driven to the point of using his own self as leverage, but Steve knows that, with no uncertain doubt, he’d follow Tony to the ends of the universe, and Steve can’t quite bring himself to lie to Tony after everything that has happened between them.

 

Nonetheless, at the rate Tony’s health is declining, sooner or later, he knows Tony won’t have a choice in the matter on whether to stay or go. Steve will drag Tony back kicking and screaming if he has to, even if Tony will never speak to him again and leave even farther than their quadrant in the galaxy the first chance he gets.

 

He tells himself he’s fine with never speaking or seeing Tony again if it means the man is  _ okay. _

 

Who the hell is he kidding? There is no world where he would survive without Tony.

 

“Steve? Are you listening?”

 

He snaps back to attention. “Yeah,” he replies, rubbing at the bridge of his nose between thumb and finger, “sorry. Keep going.”

 

Richards sighs heavily down the line. “I know this is hard for you,” he says wearily, and Steve suspects he’s not the only one becoming severely affected by the stress of Tony’s health. “I’ll look into some things, see if I missed some sort of subroutine that the virus is running. It’s possible that the anti-virus we are giving him doesn’t encompass everything.” Richards sighs again, a long puff of air that raises static over the line. “Look, I’ve become intimately familiar with how impossible Tony can be, especially when it comes to his health, but I  _ need _ some baseline readings on his vitals if I even want to start anywhere.”

 

God, don’t remind him. He’s already dreading the conversation. “I’ll get them to you by tonight, tomorrow morning at the very latest.”

 

The only answer he receives is the beep of a disconnected line.

 

Steve removes the comm from his ear to blink down at it. Sometimes, he’s rather abruptly reminded that Richards’ social skills tend to be lacking.

 

“Was that Reed?” a hoarse voice interrupts his thoughts.

 

Steve looks up in surprise. Tony’s leaning on the side of the kitchen doorway, a blanket draped down his shoulders like a second skin. “Hey,” he greets softly and, helplessly, smiles. “I thought you were still taking a nap.”

 

Tony shrugs a careless shoulder and turns so his back is parallel to his post. His head gives an audible thump against the wood as he slumps there, his eyes closing. Worryingly, he’s slightly paler than he had been this morning. “Naps are overrated,” he tries to joke, but the fact that he looks like he could fall asleep right there on his feet makes it fall flat.

 

Steve leaves his comm on the kitchen island and moves until he’s at grabbing distance, just in case. “Sure, they are,” he placates. “Want to move to the couch? I was watching that British cooking show that I know you like.”

 

“Baking,” Tony corrects, though it must do the trick; he’s walking―however unsteadily―on his own volition towards their designated destination.

 

Steve follows two steps behind, humming in agreement, and pretends all the while that he’s not afraid Tony will somehow trip over something and split his skull open.

 

“You know,” Tony says as he’s settling down into the cushions with the thick blanket still firmly wrapped around his body, “I’m not actually a delicate flower that you have to watch every second of every day.”

 

Steve knows, but he’s not willing to take his chances after the last several times in the past two weeks alone that Tony has nearly passed out or outright fainted. “Humour me, then.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes and slumps against Steve’s shoulder as Netflix begins to load up.

 

Happiness and guilt war at Steve.

 

He loves these stolen moments―Tony has been carefully allowing his presence to be closer with each passing week, despite the fact that he still can’t quite meet Steve’s eyes―yet he knows with a gripping anxiety that Tony’s life could be hanging by a thread.

 

Just four days ago, Tony’s fever had spiked again to an all time high and hovered at over a hundred three degrees for a few hours before declining back to its regular. The only correlation that Steve has so far found with those episodes is a heightened state of stress―Tony and he had a near-shouting match over Tony returning back home that same day. And, though the cause of stress has varied, for the most part, that last incident has resolutely cemented Steve’s reluctance to bring up the issue again.

 

He feels like Tony is hovering at a precipice, where anything Steve says or does could bring catastrophe.

 

Tony grumbles unhappily, poking at Steve’s rigid side. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, stop; it’s disrupting my calm British groove here.”

 

He huffs a laugh and tries to relax. “Sorry.”

 

They pass in silence through an entire episode, with Tony steadily falling closer into Steve’s side as his eyelids begin to droop. Steve is not fairing not much better, but he’s vowing to stay awake until he’s sure Tony is soundly comfortable in his own bed and heading towards at least four hours of uninterrupted rest.

 

“St’ve?” Tony mumbles into the cloth over Steve’s chest.

 

Steve threads a hand through the other man’s unruly locks and presses his lips to Tony’s forehead. Still too warm. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, unwilling to disrupt Tony’s much-needed descent into sleep.

 

“Just…” Tony sighs like a soft breeze. “Th’nks. For being here. I know I’m’no’―”

 

Steve quickly cuts that thought off. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he reminds him sternly. “And nothing will ever change that.”

 

Tony hums―though, whether it’s in agreement or not, Steve can’t tell. “Ev’ when you wanna―” Steve barely feels Tony’s fist connect with his side through the layer of blanket.

 

He pulls Tony closer, holding him still with the hand at his nape, and turns the lips brushing Tony’s forehead into a prolonged kiss. He blinks away moisture from his eyes as he tries to forget the times where he has done exactly what Tony just demonstrated. “Especially, then, Shellhead.”

 

“Mm,” is all Tony manages.

 

Steve counts the seconds while Tony’s weight becomes increasingly heavier with encroaching sleep.

 

“Sleep well, Tony,” he whispers and brushes another kiss onto Tony’s overheated skin.

 

He can only pray that Tony will still be alive to wake up in the morning.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College got a little busier than expected - I'm so sorry that it took so long to post this!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the newest update :)

Disaster strikes a few days later when they receive news from Earth: Norman Osborn, under the directive of the President, has taken over the command of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Tony has been labelled a World’s Most Wanted.

 

All of his assets were seized―including the remainder of his armours―forcing anyone remotely associated with Tony to either go into hiding or face Osborn’s deranged wrath.

 

“It’s bad,” Carol breathes haggardly into the phone. “It’s really, really fucking bad, Steve.”

 

She, along with several others, have been taking refuge in Tony’s scattered bunkers, moving from place to place every several hours like hunted animals. Steve had only just found out about the situation this morning, when call after call started bombarding his comm line while the group caught a small reprieve.

 

Rhodes and Richards had been trying to downplay the whole ordeal, but Carol has had no such qualms―from the very get-go, she has been painting a very clear picture of whom exactly she is blaming, starting with a rather simple text:

 

_‘Remember what you said to the President, Steve?’_

 

“Are you listening?” Carol says rather irritably. “If Tony comes back, you’ll be handing Osborn exactly what he wants.”

 

Steve wisely doesn’t comment that, short of an apocalypse, Tony wouldn’t come back even if there weren’t a manhunt for his head underway. “I know, Carol,” he replies with patience he doesn’t feel. “We’d be playing right into Osborn’s hands and doing no one any favours.”

 

Tony makes a noncommittal hum, his dark lashes fluttering with exhaustion. “Could be worse,” he rasps through a dry throat. “I could be brain dead in a ditch somewhere.”

 

Despite Steve trying to usher him back to bed every other few hours, Tony has been resolutely staying by Steve’s side at the kitchen island. He doesn’t particularly offer anything worthwhile to contribute to the ongoing conversations, but Steve has found his presence rather soothing at times and a welcome distraction at others.

 

Except, of course, when he makes off-handed comments like _that._ It’s like Tony can’t help himself, as if he has to leap at every opportunity to invalidate his value to others. It frightens him to the core that Tony has this darkness inside himself that lets him believe he’s someone that doesn’t deserve to be saved. To be loved and cherished. To be mourned if―God forbid―anything were to happen to him.

 

Just the thought of the man dead in a ditch somewhere―thank you, Tony, for that visual―has cold fear crawling through his veins, overrunning his heart with forceful palpitations.

 

He coerces himself to draw a calming breath as he reaches up to his ear to cut off the two-way communication from the comm. “Tony,” he says, “for god’s sake―” It comes out more harshly than he intends, but he can’t find it in himself to apologize either. He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell Tony how desperately he cares for his well being, for Tony himself, before it’ll sink into his thick skull.

 

He doesn’t know if it’s the headache that Tony’s been clearly nursing or genuine annoyance that makes Tony glare. “It’s a joke, Steve,” he snaps back, yet he doesn’t get up to leave like he would have a few weeks ago.

 

Steve’s eyes lower to the floor, away from that piercing gaze, and Tony huffs an exasperated breath that somehow dispels the moment.

 

“...contacts at S.H.I.E.L.D. have been saying that Osborn has been practically dying to get his hands on a copy of the S.H.R.A. database,” Carol is saying when he turns the two-way link back on. “Of course, anyone who knows anything knows that Tony erased all of the copies when he went off-world. Though, I’ll bet he still has one floating somewhere―”

 

Steve eyes Tony with admitted weariness until the other man gives in with a roll of the eyes and pokes a finger at his own temple rather tellingly.

 

Right, Steve recalls abruptly. Extremis.

 

“―and there must be a leak somewhere because Osborn came to the same conclusion himself.”

 

Tony snorts, and Steve raises a brow in question. _What?_ he mouths.

 

“Whoever is giving him his facts is outdated,” Tony explains with tired, dragging vowels. He stops there for a moment, his brows knitting with pain _._ Steve has to curl his hands into fists so that he doesn’t reach across the kitchen island like he yearns to when Tony starts rubbing a thumb against the arch of his brow. “The Extremis is,” he breathes heavily, “―it’s damaged extensively; I haven’t been able to access it since the Invasion. Osborn won’t find anything besides brain matter in here.”

 

“And Osborn won’t see that,” Steve concludes with a sinking feeling. “He’ll figure you have a copy somewhere.”

 

“Are you talking to Tony?” Carol interjects, her tone of voice lifting eagerly.

 

Steve tries to contain his glee when Tony flaps a hand in the direction of Steve’s ear, but something on his face must have given him away going by the way Tony rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

 

“Just pass it over,” Tony says, and Steve is more than willing to comply.

 

This is the first step, he thinks as he watches Tony’s drawn face ease for the first time today. It’s not much, but, the more Tony chooses to interact with his friends―people who genuinely care about Tony, like Pepper Potts and Rhodes and Carol―the more Steve hopes Tony will see that all is not lost. That he still has a life―a _family―_ to go back to.

 

And maybe, just _maybe,_ when this whole Osborn thing is over, Tony will finally choose to come home.

 

Yeah, Steve snorts to himself, and maybe hell will freeze over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey,” Steve’s voice drifts quietly through the gray darkness. “I thought you went to bed?”

 

Tony only shakes his head, a fist pressed into the arch of his eye socket.

 

Another migraine, Steve surmises with a sinking feeling. Maybe even the same one from yesterday morning. He pads over on socked feet and settles his weight on the coffee table, a pose that comes increasingly familiar these days. He examines Tony, the lines of pain creasing his forehead and how he’s sitting curled into himself with his favourite blanket falling loosely just off his shoulders.

 

He’s shivering.

 

He brushes the backs of his fingers along the exposed skin of Tony’s neck, careful, and his suspicion is confirmed. Tony’s fever is up again. He tucks his arms closer to himself and grips his wrist tightly, coiled tension running through his body. “Why didn’t you tell me your fever was getting worse?” he demands, though his irritation is belied by how softly he speaks.

 

Tony just shakes his head again, his closed eyelids squeezing tighter.

 

A tear spills down his pale cheek.

 

Steve’s heart seizes. “Jesus, Tony.” He’s on his knees in less than a second flat, sinking his hand through sweaty locks of hair as he guides Tony to bury his face between the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Like this, it’s easy to feel the heat radiating off of Tony, the vibrating tautness in his bunched and strained muscles. “It’s okay,” he haltingly soothes as the collar of his shirt starts going damp; “it’s okay, Shellhead.”

 

Tony’s haggard breaths tighten into a pained _“nngh,”_ and his weight suddenly sinks against Steve like a puppet’s strings cut.

 

Steve has a half-second to panic before he feels Tony’s arms come up in what is quite clearly an embrace. His heart thuds faster at the realization. This isn’t the first time that Tony has consciously sought out physical comfort, but very few other times has it felt as intimate as this.

 

“S’rry,” Tony slurs wetly with hiccuping breaths. He doesn’t stop apologizing, quacking with how desperately he’s trying to regain his self-control. “‘Ll stop in’sec; I’ll stop, ’swear.”

 

Steve soothes a hand down the length of Tony’s back, setting up a circular rhythm. “Hey, no,” he murmurs, “take your time; you just take your time, all right? I’m not going anywhere.” And, despite himself, there’s something warm that is blossoming in his chest at being able to hold the other man like this―to offer what comforts he can, to feel the solidly of his body against his own.

 

He rubs the heel of his palm, ever so gently, into the tense muscles directly below Tony’s shoulder blades and is gratified when the tension slowly starts to leak from the man’s body right along with his calming sobs.

 

It’s then that he notices.

 

Under his palm, Tony’s heart is galloping at an irregular staccato, thudding and fluttering in odd terms. His blood isn’t pumping right, as if the muscles of his heart were―

 

No.

 

_No._

 

Not this. Not now, not _here_ where he can do damn all and the only help is literally hundreds of thousands of miles away _._

 

He should’ve seen it. Oh, god, _he should’ve seen it!_ The signs were all _there,_ for fuck’s sake.

 

And now it’s too late. He can’t take Tony back, not with Osborn running the show and the entire world out for his head. Nonetheless, Steve understands with a keen dread, the danger could be just as great if Tony were to stubbornly continue his chosen exile.

 

A probability or a certainty.

 

Steve inhales a resolute breath and tucks Tony further against himself.

 

He knows exactly which he will have to choose.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](https://that616marvel.tumblr.com)!


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